The Youngest Black
by ti3
Summary: Regulus Black doesn't belong. He's not a sexgod, he's not a porcelain doll, he's not a book worm, and he's not a rebel.He doesn't stand out. And what's worse, he's the baby.Coming of age story. Rated M for language and blood.


His feet dangled over the edge of the bank as he traced patterns in the water with his toes.

The task was frustrating and relaxing at the same time.

Drawing in the water with one's toes was something that a normal fourth year Slytherin didn't do, so thus, you get the relaxing part--the not give a fuck part of any of your fellow catching you and taking the Mickey out on you. It was equally frustrating because no matter how fast he tried to draw something--a bird, a face, anything--it disappeared before he could finish it. So, Mr. Black would just start over.

Regulus bent his elbows so that he now lay on the ground, raised up on his forearms and still watching his toes as he tried to make a masterpiece out of the water. His hands came to rest on his stomach, fingers moving up and down, striking against his shirt in order to produce a complicated beat.

There was nothing to do around the castle any more. Exams were over. His fourth year was drawing to an end. There was just this week of doing nothing, hardly any lessons, for half the teachers didn't care to continue teaching any more. And then there was the other half like McGonagall, who would give you homework until the last day.

But Regulus Black wasn't worried with completing his homework. No. He had other things on his mind and he had the great prospect of being bored to work on.

In the last hour, he'd painted his toenails and fingernails black and had broken out an old pair of flip-flops that were practically new, because he'd never worn them before, to show off his new handy-work.

He'd also stolen some of Lucius' eyeliner, because everyone of the guys knew he had it, and had traced his eyes with it. So now, the black eyeliner stood out against the grayish-blue of his eyes, giving him a look of always looking far too alert and the stolen article was in his back pocket.

Call him a fag.

But he wasn't.

He was just trying to figure out who he was.

Everyone in his family was something, he was the only nothing. Bellatrix was the rebellious beauty. Narcissa, the perfect porcelain doll. Andromeda was the smart one. And hell, even Sirius had a title. He was the black sheep.

But, he, Regulus Black, felt as if he were nothing. He was smart, got good marks and was at the top of his class, but he didn't have the bookworm reputation. He looked good, but he never got the attention that Sirius did from girls. He was nice enough, but didn't get the reputation of the neutral doll like Narcissa. And he certainly had flown off the handle a time or two, but he wasn't marked reckless and wanted like Bellatrix.

He was a nothing.

And wearing nail polish, flip flops, and eyeliner seemed to be something that, at the time, had seemed like a good idea in order to set him out.

He had a legacy to live up to, but yet, he didn't think anything could be expected from him.

Regulus paused in beating out a rhythm on his stomach in order to flip over his forearm. The sleeve of his black button down shirt was rolled up, so that made his task a bit easier. He looked over his forearm. Maybe that was what he needed.

Maybe he needed to be branded by the Dark Lord. To fight for the good cause.

Bellatrix had already joined league with Voldemort, and in her fifth year. Rodolphus and Lucius were already in as well.

So, why shouldn't he, a Black, be welcomed with open arms?

After all, his family was a Dark one and one that backed up all of Voldemort's ideas, but none of them had joined up with him because all they did was sit back and talk. And then, Bellatrix had been handpicked by the Dark Lord, though no one in the family but Regulus knew, and had received the Dark Mark. So, why shouldn't he?

He was tired of being told he was too young to know something, to little to do it.

That he'd only get hurt.

It wasn't as if he hadn't done plenty enough to prove himself. He wasn't a child.

Regulus lowered his arm and turned his gaze back to his feet.

He tried desperately to trace the Dark Mark in the water. The Dark Mark that he'd seen on Bellatrix's arm so many times. The mark, that if he could join, get accepted, would solve all his problems.

But just like all the other drawings, it faded from the water before he could even finish it.


End file.
